


Hisraad

by Zycros



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and darkness, M/M, Not-lore, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zycros/pseuds/Zycros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, Hisraad bargained with the Qunari for his chargers' lives. Now he must bring them his Kadan.</p><p>Post Corypheus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hisraad

**Author's Note:**

> o I cannot grammar, please forgives.
> 
> o Takes place mostly in Seheron/Tevinter, featuring lots of made-up environments that will probably clash with known information on these two places.

_All day long the inclination had been growing steeper._

_The first sign that they were back on the shores of Seheron again was the smell: the putrid, sour smell of Seheron’s beaches, as if a hundred gulls had flung themselves bodily against the cliffs, crushing their skulls and smearing the matter across the sand just so the smell of dying could welcome visitors. The air itself, heat like a slap across the face._

_Then from there it had been a long, awkward climb from the desert to the canyon. Hours after hours of sidestepping rocks sharp enough to tear through plated boots at the right angle, his whole body as attuned to rocks as it was to the deadliest of enemies. Hours upon hours of baking in the sun, sweat drying the moment it’s secreted, so fast it might have hissed._

_Another fact that the Iron Bull had forgotten: the seemingly endless expanse of red sand. It felt like madness, like you were the only animal in this world._

_On his back, the Inquisitor, who had long since lapsed into a stony silence. It wasn’t by choice. The heat had taken such a toll on the elf that he could hardly speak, much less rage. The words died on his tongue like moisture. Now he lolled on Iron Bull’s back, his skin sunburnt and raging red by their second day on Seheron. Every few hours Bull had to stop to pour water down his throat. Bull had ointment for his sunburns too, but the mere touch of his hand resulted in a flinch that was more cutting than any refusal._

_So be it. Red it is._

 

\--

 

 

Sarenas first realized that not all was right at Denerim.

In hindsight, Bull supposed that he had been too careless with his Sarie. Sarie had not had many opportunities in the past to turn his intellect on Bull. He had always been pliant and passive, a young man who was always ready to have something explained to him, always ready to be misled and misinformed. His stance had never been one of cynicism, and with his friends especially he had always been too trusting. That weakness had been reciprocated, and Bull in turn trusted that Sarie would not question him if he were to lead them to the edge of the world and told Sarie to jump.

Thus, it was to his surprise that Sarie had turned to him and asked, “Was that a Qunari you were speaking to?”  
  
It had indeed been one of the Ben-Hassrath, but it had been an alley, and he had explicitly told Sarie to wait for him at the marketplace.

“One of the Tal-Vashoth,” He evaded. “He was only too glad to help us secure passage to the Isle of Bas-Issala. Works on a merchant ship that travels to and from.”

“He didn't look Tal-Vashoth."

"It's in the facepaint. You have to know how to look."

"I see.

He took the elf’s hand in one paw, and turned him towards the alleyways. They were bogged down by the elf’s travelling gear, most of which were books and empty leather journals that he’d refused to be parted from. The Iron Bull had persuaded him to accompany him on the journey with promises of opportunities to observe Seheron’s native wildlife, and he was not about to go forth with no means to record them.

“Come on then, the ship leaves in an hour and if we miss this one we’re going to have to eat that Fereldan slop they serve at the tavern for a fortnight yet.”

Sarie followed the Iron Bull as he steered them down the many alleys of Denerim. He had been here only a few times before, but even to a Ben-Hasraath the labyrinth of Denerim’s alleys were still incomprehensible. Across the sea, their villages and towns were built in rigid lines whenever possible, or neatly spaced out when not. Here, the buildings tower above you, crowding you and swallowing each other, and he had to take great care to guide them towards the landmarks he recognized.

They darted past low-hung laundry and banners of House Cousland that had been appropriated as tents and makeshifts beds for the poor, stepping past spit and piss and all the rot that came with a city that hadn’t yet recovered from the burning and sacking it had received. The poor littered the streets and, elven and human faces alike cast malevolent stares on them as they pass by.

On their fifth street, Sarie spoke quietly to Bull.

“You know, I think there’s something that I’ve overlooked all this while.”

“Kadan?”

He kept going. They weren’t even halfway to the docks, and the sooner they were there the better. The ship would not depart without them per se, but Qunari were not known to welcome latecomers with smiles.

“After all this time, you’ve never truly referred to yourself as Tal-Vashoth. I had thought that it was because it wasn’t something you were comfortable with...” He trailed off.

“It _is_  something I’m not comfortable with.”

Sarie continued as if he hadn’t spoken, working out – as he was wont to do – in speech rather than in mind. “But that’s not true, is it? You are a practical man, and you would call a spade a spade even if you dislike it. You don’t refer to yourself as Tal-Vashoth because you’re _not_.”

They came to a halt then. Sarenas dug his heels in, and he was such a force of nature when he was being obstinate that Bull had no choice but to stop as well. He turned to him with a weary sigh.

“What’s this about, kadan?”

“Don’t you dare kadan me.” Sarie snapped. “Tell me the truth. Is it – am I overthinking this?”

“Any sort of thinking is overthinking. You’re being mad. When’s the last time you heard Sera referring to herself as an elf, or Solas as Dalish? It’s only a wonder she doesn’t saw the tips off her ears.”

That gave him pause, and he took a moment to gather his thoughts.

“That is true, I suppose.” A pause. “But neither do they continue writing letters home.”

“Solas doesn’t have any friends who can receive letters. And Sera’s letters come in the form of three coins in her ale.” Bull quipped, increasingly agitated despite his best attempt to remain in control, but he knew Sarie saw right through him.

“Stop being evasive, Vhenan.” The last bit came out sharp, more the whip of a reminder than an endearment. It was startling, Bull supposed. More than two years together, and he’d seen this side of Sarie so rarely that he sometimes forgets it altogether. He reserved this tone for the war room, for berating nobles and threatening bandits. Not for his friends or lover.

“Your mind is just too used to seeing Corypheus’ plot in every corner. And if we dally about like this, that Fereldan slop I mentioned is going to be more than an empty threat.” He teased.

"Am I? Leliana and I spoke of this, and I protected you. And yet, here you are, consulting with what was obviously a Ben-Hassrath agent. No, don't deny it," He held up a hand. "That was no Tal-Vashoth whose Orlesian was so well-taught. I can't even speak it a third as well, and I was tutored by the best tutors Josephine could find."

"Alright. Maybe it was an agent, but 's far as I know securing passage with them doesn't violate the Qun."

"But not putting a blade in you would."

"Maybe he didn't get that particular message from the higher-ups."

But he could see that Sarie was not buying it, heard the cogs practically turning in the elf’s head. Sarie couldn’t hide his expressions and it volleyed between disbelief and suspicion. 

He tried his best to appear less aggressive - rolling his shoulders to loosen the muscles - though Maker knows how he could appear less aggressive than he already was. He would never harm the elf – he could never – and this he has to keep telling himself or he would call off their ‘trip’ right there and then.

Iron Bull did not know what he did wrong, but he obviously did it anyway, for Sarie's expression concluded in murderous determination. _Vashe-fucking-dan!_  To be caught by a slip of an elf of all things!

In a split second he saw all the things that could happen. He saw Sarie’s fingers twitching towards his dagger, and he knew that if he drew it things were going down the shit chute. In an alley like this Bull had the advantage over Sarie, who needed all the room he could to maneuver. One-on-one Bull would simply grab the little elf’s hands – daggers be damned - and crush down hard on them. A single beat to evade Sarie’s knee to his balls, and then a shove, hard enough for Sarie to go flying and incapacitate him.

On the other hand, if the elf pulled his bloody demon magic and got enough of a leghold to flip over him, Bull was dead. Sarie would cut his kidneys out in a heartbeat – or perhaps he would shank him in the ribs. Or from the back – up and slanted near the spine, almost as good as decapitation. Bull had fought beside him throughout the entire war on Corypheus, and knew that nothing short of overwhelming force would turn this battle in his favor.

Either way this went down, one of them was going to look a hell-lot of bloody in Seheron or Skyhold.

All this Sarie must have saw too. The elf was no worldly creature, but in combat at least he had held a candle few could extinguish. Saw, and discarded, for a moment later his hands moved away from his daggers. He folded his arms – as much a gesture of surrender – and gave Bull a look of resignation. They hesitated, as if recovering from the battle they hadn't fought, as if waiting for visions of each others' imaginary corpses to fade away.

He summoned a grim smile. “Lead the way then. A sunny holiday in Seheron and lots of sightseeing to be had,  yes?”

The pain in his eyes almost undid Bull, and for a moment he was tempted to call the whole bloody thing off. Undid the weeks spent reading and re-reading that one bloody letter, tossing and turning in bed, thoughts galloping like demons in his mind. Negotiations with himself, then silently pleading with anyone who could help – even fucking demons if it came down to that. But it was no good – demons cannot save you from yourself. He had made this choice many months ago. He, himself, and no one else.

He clenched his fists. Unclenched them. This was a victory then, a temporary truce to draw out their dance. They both know the unspoken reason for this: that what secured the Inquisitor to him was not bindings or chains, but love. And that Sarie does not walk away because he knows there are no paths that he can walk alone.

Wordlessly, he took Sarie’s hand and led them down the path he had chosen for them all those years ago.

_A dreadnought for the Inquisitor. A dreadnought for your chargers._

_Earn his trust. We will call._

An exchange.

He, Hisraad, and no one else.

 


End file.
